Working a part-time job really isn't as simple as I imagined…
Komari, beads of sweat on her forehead, let out a quiet sigh as she stepped out of the stuffy kitchen. The sigh vanished as quickly as it came—the ticking clock pushed her to move faster.
The petite, pretty girl lifted a tray and almost ran toward the front hall—then froze, her legs going weak. So many people, all kinds of people laughing and chatting. Maybe it was her imagination, but it felt like their eyes were always on her.
So scary… The thought of walking that gauntlet, enduring strangers' gazes, made her involuntarily step back. She'd chosen the more laborious kitchen precisely because she feared facing people.
But now wasn't the time to think about that.
And wasn't she the one who needed to change?
"Table seven, table seven… Just get to table seven…"
Komari gritted her teeth. Hands and feet trembling, she walked the aisle with her eyes fixed straight ahead, taking one difficult step after another.
When she came to her senses, she'd finally completed the long journey.
The customers were looking at her.
Strange… Why do I feel like I can't clearly see their faces?
Komari set the tray down and, biting her tongue, stammered, "P-please enjoy."
Good! Done!
Relief flooded her, sweet as surviving a disaster.
But then—
"Hmm, I think we ordered the Curry Pork set, not this miso soup and fried chicken nuggets?"
The slightly troubled voice struck her ears like a bell.
Huh?
Meaning… I made a mistake?
The world spun. Komari nearly couldn't support her own weight.
So "everything went black" wasn't just a figure of speech—it was real.
Even as that odd thought surfaced, she forced out, "I'm very… sorry," and fled with the tray in a panic.
Back in the staff corridor—so close to the kitchen—she still didn't have the courage to tell the seniors who were working so hard.
I… messed up…
What do I do, what do I do, what do I do…
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. The items on her tray slipped off balance; a crisp crack of shattering ceramic rang out. Shards of bowls and dishes scattered across the floor, fine as her trembling eyelashes. Miso soup splashed her uniform and soaked her socks, yet she felt no pain.
When Kiyono lowered the oil temperature for the shrimp tempura to around 175 degrees for the second time, he suddenly realized he hadn't seen Komari for a while. A faint noise sounded down the hall. He frowned, scooped out the tempura, took off his oil-proof mask, and stepped out.
He found a girl kneeling, frantically gathering shards. Her shoulders looked exceptionally thin.
"I—I'm sorry, Senior… The Curry Pork set for table seven… I remembered it as fried chicken nuggets…"
Her head stayed bowed. The toes of her soup-soaked socks curled inside her shoes.
Kiyono glanced at her. She was more worried about the wrong dish than the soup splashed on her thigh… Too conscientious, or just a fool?
"Let me see the receipt," he said.
She passed it over, her fingernails gone pale.
"Minor issue. The folks at table seven are regulars, and they brought a kid. Fried chicken happens to be his favorite. We send a fried chicken set as compensation for the boy, then make another and get it out."
Kiyono smiled. Right now, more important than comforting her was making it clear: This can be fixed—so she wouldn't keep blaming herself.
He returned to the kitchen, added a "Special Golden Fried Chicken with Secret Tomato Sauce" to the receipt, and doodled a crying chick in a chef's hat in the remarks.
Komari instinctively followed, staring blankly as he worked.
When Kiyono carried the tray to table seven, Komari felt a sheen of sweat along her back.
Under the lights, his smile was exceptionally gentle. "Your additional fried chicken set is ready."
Amid the child's cheers and the adults' puzzled looks, he went on, "This is the store's rule: if a dish is sent by mistake, the head chef remakes it and includes a complimentary set. The crying chick is the head chef's anti-counterfeit watermark."
"So that's how it is…"
The man in the suit glanced at the boy already eating with his head down and smiled. "You've really gone to a lot of trouble."
The matter… was resolved just like that?
Komari trailed after Kiyono, lightheaded, as if walking on air.
He looked at her and shook his head helplessly. Newcomers were all like this; a tiny mistake felt like the sky was falling… and this was exactly when a senior had to step in.
"It's break time. Take this."
Kiyono pulled an ointment tube from the first-aid kit, then grabbed two ice cubes from the fridge and tossed them to her.
Komari caught them on reflex, the coolness snapping her back to herself.
"You were scalded by the miso soup, right? If you don't treat it, it can leave a scar."
Leaving those gentle words behind, Kiyono slipped out of the break room.
They weren't familiar yet. With him there, she'd only feel more self-conscious.
Komari lowered her lashes and bit her lip.
Senior Kiyono…
The name etched itself into her heart.
…
Saturday. Morning fog soaked the early hours, dark clouds veiled the sun, and the pre–plum-rain season breeze rustled the newspapers in the bicycle's front basket.
"Looks like it's going to rain more often."
Kiyono scowled at the sky. He disliked rain—cycling got troublesome, and so did delivering newspapers.
A sharp squeal of rubber on concrete rang out ahead. He braked on instinct. A girl sprinted toward him like a hundred-meter dash, sweat beading beneath the brim of her baseball cap.
"Move aside! Brakes failed!"
She shouted a warning—but of course they didn't actually collide. Yakishio Lemon skidded to a steady stop beside him, glanced at the newspapers, and laughed:
"Yo, Kiyono, delivering papers this early? So diligent. I like it!"
Her pretty face was flushed, and her boisterous words were misleading.
But she meant it. A diligent athlete herself, she admired diligence in others—her "like" closer to public "admiration."
"Lemon's practicing?" Kiyono—misunderstanding nothing—asked calmly.
"Yeah. Already been running for over an hour."
Relaxed, Lemon counted the bundles in his basket, made sure she wouldn't mess up his route, then clapped him on the back. "Kiyono, let me help with these last few. In return, when you're done, come play ball with me. Good exercise?"
He almost refused, but the look on her face hinted at a desire for a heart-to-heart. He agreed. He had time these days anyway.
"If you're not afraid of a crushing defeat."
"Hmph, bold words. Even the seniors in our basketball club rarely beat me."
"…Can I still back out?"
Five minutes of pedaling later, the deliveries were done. They reached a small park.
"Kiyono, let's warm up first, okay? Need help stretching?"
The park was quiet in the early morning. She limbered up on the thin grass, smiling. For athletes, the body is everything; details matter.
"I refuse." He declined the chance for close contact and stretched on his own—his body felt stiff. If he weren't young, this lifestyle would've already given him back pain.
She didn't mind, kneeling to adjust her ankle brace. Her calf muscles traced a clean arc; the edge of her shorts revealed a sharp tan line—an understated, inexplicable allure.
Kiyono's gaze flicked to the boundary between wheat-brown and white, then away.
"Yo!" Lemon sprang up and finished her routine, then moved to the concrete and started dribbling. Thud—thud.
"The court's tiny, so let's just mess around. First to ten wins. Deal?"
She swept the area with a challenger's grin.
"Alright." Kiyono breathed out, squatted to tighten his laces. The rust in his joints said he needed this.
Yakishio Lemon passed him the ball. "Since it's a match, let's wager. Winner grants the loser one request—and buys breakfast and a drink. Sound good?"
Seeing nothing amiss, he took the ball, confident. "I'll win."
Triumph and excitement tugged at Lemon's smile as she sank into a low stance.
Kiyono dribbled nostalgically, found the rhythm, took a step—
A crisp sound echoed across the court.
"I bought it."
Yakishio Lemon handed over a plastic bag—meat buns, chicken nuggets, hot dogs, sports drinks—to Kiyono, who sat on a swing.
His expression was complicated. Free food couldn't soothe a 10–2 loss.
And the two points he'd scraped together were thanks to a simple physical advantage—not exactly elegant.
This girl's athletic talent was obvious.
"Kiyono, you're better than I thought! A beginner scoring twice on me is great. With some training, you might even beat me!" She was still rubbing salt in the wound.
"Hmph… You only defeated the weakest of countless Kiyonos."
"Are you a clone!?"
Lemon planted a hand on her hip, gulped her drink, then settled onto the neighboring swing, swaying idly.
"Now tell me what's on your mind," Kiyono said, biting into a meat bun.
"I—I don't really have anything troubling."
She turned her head; the lemon-shaped hair ornament swayed with the motion.
"You're a lot less tsundere than Yanami," Kiyono observed.
"…Honestly."
The understanding in his tone pulled out a gentler side of the athlete. "Kiyono, do you think effort matters in love?"
He blinked. Effort and love rarely shared a sentence. Was it useful? Sure—sometimes. But how much? Hard to say. Love leans too much on timing, chance, and chemistry. And "effort" covers too much ground.
Changing yourself to match someone's tastes is effort; plotting clever schemes to make someone fall for you is effort too.
There were so many "efforts" that he couldn't find the right answer.
Lemon seemed to read him, sighing softly. A face usually lit with energy and passion dimmed with a hint of melancholy.
She'd lived in the world of sports since childhood, a place with simple rules: work hard, improve, succeed.
Those rules had carried her this far. But now, all the effort she poured into love felt like it might be for nothing.
"When I realized that, I got scared. I don't like that feeling."
Her swing drifted back to center.
"These past few days, I've been trying. But no matter what I do, it's like walking in the dark. There's always a voice telling me to give up."